


GRAVESBURN

by write_light



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Druids, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magic, Major Character Injury, Minor Violence, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 07:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4555374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_light/pseuds/write_light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sterek AU.  A wave of terror is wiping out the great werewolf families and whoever stands with them. The final target: Beacon Hills and the Hales.  As Stiles reaches out to find Derek, an unsettling mystery forever entwines their fate, but solving it may require trusting the least trustworthy people they know.  Stiles and Derek are faced with two nearly impossible tasks – accepting their connection to each other so they can stop the violence before it ever takes root.  </p><p>Warnings: druid magic, time travel, emotionally unprepared idiots, gun violence, major character injury, a little gore, a lotta angst, and a cliffhanger</p>
            </blockquote>





	GRAVESBURN

**  
**

**Prompt Number:** 1001 ****

 **Art Post:**[Gravesburn Art](http://alexisjane.livejournal.com/223853.html)  
**Artist:[alexisjane](http://alexisjane.livejournal.com/)**  
  
**Fic Title:** Gravesburn  
**Author:** [write_light ](http://write-light.livejournal.com/) 

 **Characters/Pairings: Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale** , Alan Deaton, Marin Morrell, Sheriff Stilinski, Lydia Martin, Scott McCall, Chris Argent **  
**Rating: R for violence  
**Word Count:** ~10.5K  
**Warnings:** druid magic, time travel, emotionally unprepared idiots, gun violence, major character fatal injury, a little gore, a lotta angst, and a cliffhanger

[@LJ](http://write-light.livejournal.com/575460.html) || [@DW ](http://write-light.dreamwidth.org/504799.html)|| [@tumblr](http://write-light.tumblr.com/post/126508546234/fic-gravesburn-derek-halestiles-stilinski)

 

* * *

_Time is a fluid condition which has no existence except in the momentary avatars of individual people._

_There is no such thing as_ **was** _— only_ **is** _. If_ **was** _existed, there would be no grief or sorrow._

_\- William Faulkner, The Paris Review interview (1956)_

* * *

 

 

**GRAVESBURN**

 

 

**The Storm**

"Calm before the storm… what a load of sh—"

"Dude!" Scott cut Stiles off before he said his next word, but both of them were already getting the evil eye from the substitute English teacher.

"It's a cliché!" Stiles continued, tired of the great literature his textbook was offering.

"Very good observation," said the teacher, stopping to scan the roster, squinting at the name for a good ten seconds.

"Stilinski," Stiles offered.

"Yes, and you correctly noted one of the worst parts of this or any story – the clichéd phrases."

"Plus it's wrong," Stiles continued, dangerously emboldened by this unexpected praise. "Sometimes you need a little storm in your life just to keep you on your toes, keep you centered. A big black growling storm."

"So you're saying you prefer trouble?" the teacher asked; it felt like a trap.

"Yeah. No," he corrected quickly. "Just… a little back and forth is nice, is all. No storm - no calm."

"Is this about Derek?" Scott whispered from behind him.

"Shut _up_ ," Stiles said just loud enough for Scott to hear.

"Wonderful essay topic for the class, Mr. Stilinski. Let's say a short one, about 500 words, on the value of chaos and turmoil, by tomorrow."

The class turned, as one it seemed, to look at Stiles with open hatred.

"There's your turmoil," Scott whispered.

 

 

**Semester Project**

"Did he have to leave? Just like that?" Stiles complained as he sat on the bed in Scott's room.

"He said goodbye. We had dinner at his place," Scott reminded him yet again as he attempted to keep his mind on the essay he was writing. The desk lamp flooded the paper, washing the words off it as they formed.

"And then nothing. Not a call, not a letter…" Stiles continued, undeterred. _Just that awkward talk Derek and I had after you ditched us, Scott._

"No one writes letters," Scott mumbled, hoping they wouldn't have this same conversation a fourth time. "And who picks the substitute teachers at our school?"

"Maybe he's trapped in some Calavera jail - again," Stiles said softly, his eyes now distant.

Scott groaned and lay back over the arm of his chair dramatically, looking at his friend upside-down.

"What is _wrong_ with you? Are you actually still crushing on him or something? You've been getting worse every week. Is this why you broke up with Malia?"

Stiles' face burned hot and he stopped talking about Derek immediately. If Scott hadn't been so worried about the essay he might have put a few things together – his question, Stiles' rare silence and the sudden change of topic.

"What about my project in History class?" Stiles asked, "The Civil War one?"

"Ugh, so glad I didn't take AP History with you," Scott groaned, rubbing his hands over his face.

Stiles felt the heat of panic leaving him as Scott accepted the transition to the discussion of his history project and the certain doom that AP held for both of them. _Just want him to come back is all. Not in love with him. Not with a - a big scruffy werewolf guy like that._

Stiles was picturing Derek transforming from wolf into human. He'd never even seen Derek transform, and everyone else had - with all the naked Derek that implied and that Scott refused to talk about.

But it didn't stop his imagination. Nothing could.

_Nutty. You're nutty, Scott. Not in love. I just want Derek back for a few days._

 

**The News**

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead and beyond them a faraway conversation prodded at Stiles' dozing mind. The words before him had blurred long ago, and in his daydream he was complaining to Scott about the unfairness of teachers, and their uncanny ability to ruin the approaching hope of vacation with giant last-minute research projects. Scott was smiling. It annoyed Stiles. Scott had his arm around Liam, and that annoyed Stiles too.

"I like you, Liam, really, but Scott was _my_ friend first," he mumbled into the side of his hand, which was propping him up at a steep angle.

He heard a giggle at that statement, and in his mind it was Liam giggling. Stiles opened his eyes wide and saw a group of sophomore guys at the far desk trying hard not to laugh. He gathered his books and moved sleepily toward the door.

The librarian was watching the news discreetly on her laptop, but had become oblivious to everything around her as the images evolved. Stiles glanced briefly over her shoulder at the screen and saw live video of flashing police lights, a taped off area, and the scrolling words "mass suicide" at the bottom. He paused, and kept walking. He stopped short of the door and turned back to the desk.. The librarian was biting the nail of her little finger as she stared wide-eyed at the screen.

"Excuse me," Stiles said.

He repeated himself loudly and waved his hand at her; she jerked back, her laptop slipping to floor with a clatter as her earphones disconnected.

"I’m sorry-" they said together.

From below the desk, they could hear the reporter breathlessly describing the scene.

"Investigations into this bloody scene of unbelievable tragedy and carnage were delayed – the county is dealing with the murder of its own sheriff, also killed last night."

"What can I do for you?" the librarian asked, flushed and slightly annoyed.

"Nine bodies were discovered in this quiet home on Beacon Hill Road, all arranged in one room."

"Do you have anything on police and sheriff forces in the Civil War? Any primary sources?" Stiles asked, trying to ignore the lurid news and failing. "And was that – did they say Beacon Hills?" Stiles asked her, pointing down at her laptop.

"It was in Virginia, not here," she said quickly. "This is a high school library," she added in a tone more patronizing than apologetic. "If you want primary sources, try the county library."

"Can you tell me if-"

"We don't have access to their catalog."

"We are part of the county," Stiles said bluntly.

The librarian shrugged her shoulders.

"Thanks, very helpful," Stiles said, but she was already diving under the desk to retrieve the laptop.

***

The news about Leesburg ran non-stop all week. Nine dead in a large old home west of town. Nothing odd, Stiles thought, except that they were calling it a mass suicide. And that they were all one family. _Nothing odd about that,_ he thought.

"Nothing totally creepy and inexplicable and supernatural about that at all," he muttered, and made a note to get into the police database to find out more later.

The semester calendar above his desk was glaring at him hard enough to take his attention from the news. When he looked up at it, he was reminded of the unstoppable approach of final exams and the holidays that lay between now and then, each one ruined by his AP History project. A red circle around the presentation date burned like a ring of fire awaiting him the day after break.

 

**The Photograph**

The County Library was dimly lit, not because of any noble effort to conserve energy or save money, but because the original fixtures hung far above a vast room colder than the day outside and lined with dark shelves full of stale books. Muffled sounds came from corridors unseen.

"Special Collections is this way," said the sallow man at the reference desk, motioning Stiles to follow him as he talked to himself and tossed out questions without a pause.

"The Civil War is a specialty of ours. We get a lot of you AP kids here every semester. Let me guess – day after break is when you present? Do you have a county library card?"

"Um, no, I have… no. I have my regular library card. From the high school."

"Give me your driver's license and I'll get the paperwork started for a real one," he sighed. "Just don't tell anyone I let you in without it."

Stiles smiled weakly.

"Wait at the table till I get back and I'll open up the document collection," he said unhelpfully before vanishing out the door, leaving it to slowly seal Stiles in. He could feel his ears pop as the room's environmental controls adjusted and utter silence enveloped him.

Two minutes passed, then five, and Stiles began to open drawers randomly. He figured out the filing system quickly and found the Civil War cabinet of maps, carefully preserved yet looking fragile enough to shatter if he touched them. The collection of Northern anti-slavery pamphlets was impressive, and lists of the dead and their memorabilia took up half the drawers, it seemed. One yellowed envelope contained a photo album of pictures remarkably preserved, and he turned each heavy black page with care.

Simply and severely dressed people stared back at the camera from every page, and in the shadowy room, Stiles leaned closer to see them better.

The soldiers on the next page had beards and reminded Stiles very much of Derek. Strong, stern faces, incapable of fun unless goaded into it. Stiles bit his lip at the twinge he felt, the wish that friends would just stick around. Trying not to think about Derek, he lifted the next page gently and turned it over. One picture was askew, catching his eye immediately, and Derek was forgotten in an instant.

Stiles sat hunched over the old photo album, oil from his fingers soaking the picture as he gripped tighter and tighter, moisture from his breath beginning its destruction of the picture he was exhaling on.

The soldier in the small photograph was young, with wide dark eyes, short dark hair and a steely gaze; he looked tired. His uniform was ill fitting but he held the bayonet against his right shoulder with perfect ease.

"This isn't-. It's not real. Not a chance. Something with genetics. I'll ask Lydia; she knows genetics."

He kept talking as he dialed Lydia and lifted the photo out of the paper corners keeping it in the album. Something written on the back had been almost entirely scratched off.

"What is it, Stiles?" Lydia said, sounding tired and impatient.

"Lydia, can genes recombine to produce an exact copy of someone years later?"

Lydia sighed. "I'm at the spa with my mom. Is this absolutely vital?"

"Yeah, Lyd, it – it kinda is."

She heard his voice shake and took pity on him.

"Theoretically, yes, but the chances of exact duplication are, well, impossible. So no. What is this about, Stiles?"

"I have to show you. What spa are you at?"

"Stiles, show me tomorrow." She discarded the phone as she slipped deeper into the mud bath.

"Yeah, okay," he replied to his blank phone. "Yeah. Okay."

Stiles looked around the room, shaking and sweaty over something that had to be impossible.

The picture turned over and over as his fingers worked of their own accord. It was always him, his own face, every time the photo came around. He was staring at himself, with a look he recognized as his own. He even knew which muscles made that expression, could tell what mood he was in, it was so familiar.

The rest of the album held pictures of some small towns on the Kansas frontier but nothing was dated or explained, none of it. He flipped through the last ten pages in his search for where these pictures came from. He found the outer envelope again but it had only an acquisition number and date. The drawer was labeled only "Civil War."

He heard the outer door pop open behind him and slipped the picture quickly into the pocket of his hoodie where it made very obvious sharp-cornered points. The reference librarian was too irritated that he'd started touching things to notice this sleight of hand, and Stiles could only apologize profusely as the librarian gently slid the photo album back into its envelope.

"When- where did those pictures come from?" Stiles asked finally.

The librarian stopped his tidying and looked at Stiles, then at the acquisition log.

"Unknown, it says. They were donated as part of an estate collection, but the exact provenance… we don't have. It was donated specifically to this library, the year after we opened, so… 1893? We catalog what we can. Budget cuts haven't been kind. We'll get it all online some day."

Stiles was backing away, apologizing again. He was pale and nervous now.

"Your library card!" the librarian said, slipping it from his shirt pocket.

"Thanks," Stiles added weakly, backing out of the Rare Books room with his hand pressing against his stomach.

 

**The Theory**

"You actually got one of those old-timey pics?" Scott asked, one eyebrow raised at Stiles.

"No, it's-"

"Why didn't you invite me along? I always wanted one!" he said with exuberant envy.

"Scott, I-"

"With my six-guns and a big black hat!" he went on enthusiastically, posing as if he were shooting the bad guy in a Western town at high noon.

"SCOTT."

"What?"

"This is a real picture. And really old. And really from the Civil War."

"Yeah, right. Give it back," he said, yanking it from Stiles' hand.

"Easy! I stole it from the Rare Books room."

"You – stole it?" he asked, his disappointment attempting to mask sincere approval.

"It's ME!" Stiles yelled.

"No, you were not alive then. I'm pretty sure," he joked.

"Scott…" He wanted to argue but his voice trailed off.

"It's gotta be fake – someone put your face onto someone else's picture."

"In a rare books collection, donated in 1893?"

***

Lydia stared at the picture for a long time.

"I'm not seeing anything on this that says it's from 1893 or 1983 or any other year. But the image looks like a silver print on the original paper. The era fits. Go back and keep looking," she said, handing it back to Stiles.

"It doesn’t bother you that I'm in a picture from the 1800s?" Stiles asked, incredulous.

"It doesn't bother me because I'm not convinced that time travel is possible."

"Why is time travel the first option that comes into your head?" Stiles asked, giving Lydia a look.

"Because I excluded reincarnation."

"After what you know about spirits?" Scott interjected, but she ignored him after a brief sigh.

"Couldn't it just be- I don't know, a relative?" Stiles persisted.

"When did the Stilinskis come to this country?" Lydia asked.

"Turn of the last century," Stiles answered quickly.

"So. Time travel it is," she concluded.

Stiles rubbed his forehead. "I'm going back," he said.

"That's not a good idea, Stiles," Scott said, worried. "The Butterfly Effect alone could-"

"To the _library_ , Scott. Back to the library, not back in time."

 

**Captain Black**

The pop in his ears was just as strong but the whole room felt colder this time, too cold. The reference librarian was determined not to leave Stiles alone with the collection so he hovered, trying to look busy at a nearby computer screen as Stiles pored over several collections from the same year as the photo album. His hands were sweating profusely into the thin blue gloves he'd been told to wear.

The photo he'd taken the day before was hidden in his shirt pocket - no way to return it to the album now with the hawkeyed assistant watching him. He flipped absently through several other books of photographs, expecting to find more pictures of himself, some past self, maybe, an ancestor, a clone, a time traveller, the inexplicable past-Stiles. _Two of me. That just can't be a good thing._

The librarian was no longer watching him, but was instead engrossed in news of two new mass suicides, both involving families, one just three people, another fifteen, the worst of them.

Stiles took up another slim envelope and opened it with excruciating slowness, just as the librarian had shown him. An uninteresting series of land deals, census records, and several extremely fragile newspaper articles, most from 1869, with a few from earlier years was all it contained.

One article had been hastily torn out, not cut cleanly from the page. The man whose face was sketched in the accompanying illustration was identified as "Capt. Black" missing two weeks and presumed dead in the Rangers' massacre. Stiles unfolded the aged newsprint carefully and his eyes widened at the photograph tucked inside. The strong jaw made his heart jump; the mouth was sufficient to make clear whom the photo depicted, despite the dark Civil War uniform.

Stiles froze, unwilling to entertain one more second of this, convinced he was hallucinating. He made sure the librarian was occupied and then opened the paper wider with both hands to see the eyes. With that, Derek returned to him – the oddest reunion they'd ever had.

He moved from frozen to trembling, his hands shaking as the room began to spin slowly around him. He wobbled in his chair, even as he braced both feet on the floor. He had Derek in his hands, Derek with that same stern, unmistakable gaze despite a century and a half. It was as penetrating as ever and Stiles couldn't pull away.

"I will be back in one minute. Do NOT touch anything that isn't already in your hands," said the librarian, grabbing his humming phone from its belt holster.

Stiles saw him only as a distant, babbling figure over the thumping heartbeat in his head. He mumbled something and knew it wasn't right because the blurry figure tilted its head and paused for a moment before leaving. Stiles pulled Derek close to his chest, bits of the newspaper falling to the floor in the process. He tried to put the photo in the pocket next to the one of him but it wouldn't fit, so he shoved it up under his t-shirt in desperation.

The next moments were a blur of folders slipping back into envelopes and bits of yellowed newspaper snatched up before the librarian returned. At the last second, he tucked in his shirt to keep Derek from slipping away from him.

"Anything else I can get for you?" the librarian asked, emphasizing the _I_.

"Gotta go. My dad, he's, uh, he's dating someone new and he's awful at it and I have _got_ to help him. He just called," Stiles babbled out in one long stream and pushed past the librarian, feeling Derek clinging to his sweaty chest. "Thanks though."

Stiles muttered "You hold on, buddy, hold on" as he fast-walked his way to the exit as un-obviously as he could. Derek was slipping down his chest inch by inch.

 

**The Search**

"Scott, did he tell you where he went? _Anything?_ "

"No, he just said he'd be gone a while. He looked happy. At peace."

"Thanks, dude," Stiles snapped, taking it personally.

"He probably wants a fresh start. This town wasn't good to him."

"Again, thanks, Scott. Your bedside manner is just perfect for working with animals."

" _You_ were good for him," Scott said quietly.

Taken aback, Stiles didn't respond for moment. He was reliving an awkward goodbye and a mountain of doubts about how good he was.

_"Just because your life is— because you have everything you want—." Stiles' head was twitching even as he said it, knowing it was wrong. "Mine is just starting. I'm leaving for college soon." Stiles couldn't pull the words back even as he saw how it hit Derek, but he tried. "Look, I mean—"_

_"I don’t have everything I want," Derek said, so quietly and calmly that Stiles' neck hairs stood up._

_Another sentence waited behind that small, quiet one - a huge, life-changing idea. Stiles could see it behind Derek's gaze before he lowered his eyes to the floor. Derek held the words back fiercely with the tight-lipped grimace that he still believed hid his feelings from Stiles. What that idea would become when it finally escaped, neither of them knew._

"Eventually you were good for Derek, I mean. Not at first," Scott added, unable to be dishonest.

Stiles gave him a look of deepest betrayal.

Scott interrupted with "Deaton!"

"Is never as helpful as we seem to think he is – What is he anyway?" Stiles replied. "Emissary without a pack? Mild-mannered veterinarian with a killer mountain ash toss?"

"He'll know where to start."

"Say nothing about the photos, okay? The fewer people know, the better."

"Isn't it 'the _less_ people know'?" Scott asked.

Stiles was done. Shoulders down, head down, mouth bent down to match, done with Scott.

 

**The Exchange**

Deaton was as vague as Stiles had feared. He sat them down in his office, which had almost no lights except for a small lamp shining on a small book he had been reading. He closed the book carefully and thought for a moment.

"Derek is on a journey, a path to greater self-discovery that may one day bring him back to Beacon Hills," Deaton intoned as Stiles tugged at his earlobe impatiently. "But in the meantime, I think you two need to focus on getting out of high school and into college."

"Do you know where he is?" Stiles demanded, his voice edged with frustration this time.

"I can find him for you," came a woman's voice from behind them, "but I'll need to know a few things first."

Stiles jumped in his chair and whipped around.

Scott turned to see who he'd missed coming in. "Ms. Morrell?" he asked, surprised he hadn't noticed her.

"What things do you need to know?" Stiles asked, his heart still racing.

"Why Derek Hale? Why now?" she asked, walking around the desk to get a better look at Stiles' face in the dim light.

Stiles was glad he'd left the photographs with Lydia.

"What's going on with the ritual murders around the country?" he asked instead of answering her questions. "There've been five now, starting with Virginia."

"You mean the suicides in Leesburg?" she asked guardedly, and Stiles could see her fingers working in and out.

"They aren't suicides, though, are they?" he countered, keeping his eyes on hers.

Her face was fixed and unreadable, but she seemed as determined as Stiles to get real answers.

"You answer my questions, I'll answer yours," Morrell said with icy stubbornness.

"I don’t advise doing that," Deaton said, but it was unclear which of them the warning was meant for. He sat back uneasily in his chair and watched them both; Scott leaned away from Stiles as well..

"Why do you want Derek Hale?" she repeated.

Stiles fumbled for a second, a tell, and Morrell smirked. Deaton only stared.

"I need Derek because he's the best wolf for the job."

"Scott's a true alpha," she argued.

"Derek's my friend. We understand each other."

"Scott's been your closest friend since elementary school," she countered quickly.

"They make a good pair," Scott volunteered in the middle of this exchange.

Morrell's eyes shifted to Scott and with a blink, back to Stiles.

"Derek and I have some kind of…connection," was all Stiles could think of.

He wasn't sure about the word he'd chosen, but Morrell seemed satisfied. Stiles looked between her and Deaton repeatedly, tying the strings between them in his mind.

"There is a danger now, a great one, especially to wolves," she said finally. "But these killers will be stopped."

Stiles could hear both hope and uncertainty in her tone, but certainty returned when she spoke of Derek.

"Derek is at a refuge in Mexico. You could call him, but he's very far away from everyone right now, on purpose."

Stiles looked at Scott, who looked at Deaton, who looked back to Morrell.

"You did try his cell phone?" she asked, incredulous.

"Yeah, but he hardly ever texts back," Scott said softly, looking at Stiles for sympathy.

Some days Stiles told himself his restraint was a virtue, but now he was kicking himself mentally for being the biggest coward and never once dialing Derek's number.

"We'll look into the… situation in Leesburg and let you know," Deaton said.

"Tell your father to take care of himself," Morrell added, looking pointedly at Stiles as they left.

 

**The Siblings**

"What are you doing, sister?" Deaton asked bluntly when Scott and Stiles had left.

"Why are you doing nothing?" she replied, and they stared at each other in silence.

"Do you regret choosing sides?"

"It's all we can do. The family way."

"I regret it," Deaton said more quietly. "And that we chose differently." He watched her face for the pain he expected and it flashed there for just a second.

"Inaction is no choice," she said, anger escaping in those words. She changed the subject quickly to hide the emotion. "How does Stiles know these were attacks?"

"He's good at that," Deaton replied, still studying her face for motive. "Always has been good at seeing the truth behind any façade, at putting things together. Some of it's being a cop's kid, most of it's… what makes him Stiles."

"He'll figure it out, then – what he is and what he's capable of? Just not in time."

"He'll probably figure us out too, the speed he works at," Deaton agreed with admiration in his voice. "But he's not going to like any of it. He wants to be 'human'."

"Does he even know why he wants Derek?" Morrell asked again, ignoring talk of Stiles' talents.

"He's in love."

"We've known that for years. I mean, why _now?_ " she persisted.

"He's guessing the killings won't stop. All his experiences here in Beacon Hills support that. Maybe he thinks he can do something besides just weather the storm?" Deaton speculated.

"And why is Derek not in Beacon Hills? He's not out there discovering his new powers — he's avoiding the parts of his life that he can't face."

"He's rediscovered the balance he lost with Kate. He won't leave Beacon Hills undefended."

"Hale men - either holding back too long or racing forward blindly. That hasn't changed."

"Derek has changed. You'll see," Deaton assured her.

"We can stop this war," she said quietly, an affirmation to herself.

"Not alone, and maybe not even with all the power we can channel in this town."

"We have to stop it." Morrell's voice betrayed fear for the first time. "We started it."

"No, _she_ started it. We've been fighting over how to stop it for generations but _she_ started it."

 

**The Phone Call**

At the edge of the Beacon Hills nature reserve, in sight of a very old and very burned house, sat the jeep and its single occupant.

Stiles tapped Derek's number out, slowing with each digit until no more remained. He switched quickly to a game, played until he'd built up his courage again, and then pushed the call button before he could overthink it. It rang, and he hung up, breathing hard. A moment later, his phone buzzed and he nearly dropped it. After several near catches, he had it in hand again and answered.

"Derek?"

"What's wrong, Stiles?"

"Oh, come on, Derek, I can't just call-?"

"You wouldn't." His attitude was brusque but the tone was unmistakably gentler when he continued. "What do you need?"

"Okay, there are these attacks—"

"They massacred most of the Calaveras, and the police they were paying off too," Derek interrupted, unexpectedly happy to be having what passed for normal conversation between them.

"I thought it was just wolf families…" Stiles began.

"…but it's hunters too, and the ones in Fort Collins were emissaries," Derek completed the thought.

"Who could take out the Calaveras – and druids?" Stiles asked him, worried. "Are you okay? What's going on, Derek?"

"I don't know yet," he answered, and the worry had crept into his voice as well. "It is wolf families – packs that went back to before this country was even founded. They were some of the greatest I've ever known."

Stiles was silent, waiting.

"But that's not why you called," Derek stated after a long pause.

"I found something," Stiles said quickly. "I need you to see it."

"Send me a picture."

"I need you to come back to Beacon Hills to see it."

"To see what, Stiles?"

"To see _me_ , for one. And Scott, and the whole pack," he added quickly. "Liam's turning out to be a real pain in the ass."

Derek was silent now, realizing Stiles would pester him forever about this.

"You know, that silent staring eyebrows thing is great in person, but on the phone…. You could at least grunt."

"What did you find, Stiles?" he asked, exasperated and emotionally upended by this kid who just wouldn't leave him alone, afraid he was making the same mistakes over again, and yet happy to hear him.

"A photograph of me from the Civil War."

"How is that-?"

"I know!" Stiles said excitedly. "And one of you, too."

"Are they – they aren't real?"

"As far as Lydia or anyone can tell they are."

"Look, don’t show them to anyone else. I'll be back soon."

"They were in an envelope at the County Library, well, two envelopes; it was totally an accident that I found them," Stiles added, hoping to keep Derek's deep voice in his ear for just a minute longer.

"I doubt that was an accident," Derek said and hung up.

"You doubt that, really?" Stiles laughed. "Derek?"

He stared at the dark phone and sighed with frustration.

 _This frustration feels good._ "Missed you too."

 

**The Wolves**

Violent attacks came twice that week – inexplicable fires, bizarre accidents, whole families consumed by tragedy, but the murdered police in those same cities were never mentioned in the reports.

The Sheriff kept the TV off and begged Stiles to ignore the Internet, but reports were flooding his office – someone was gunning for law enforcement in every city where there were attacks. That made Stiles more nervous than Agent McCall visiting his house nearly every day now.

"Not one BOLO – there's no one to be on the lookout for, not a single lead?" the Sheriff asked pointedly in McCall's direction.

"The one in the south, in Shreveport, they're calling that an 'accident' still?" Stiles interrupted.

"Stiles—" the Sheriff began, knowing where this would lead.

"And the one in Colorado Springs, and the one in Mexico?"

Agent McCall's head snapped up at that name.

"How did you hear about—?"

"I heard!"

McCall sighed, then ignored Stiles to speak directly to the Sheriff.

"Somebody killed one of the worst gangs, hit them hard and got them all," McCall said to the Sheriff. "They called themselves Calaveras."

"Hear that, Dad?"

The Sheriff looked at Stiles, knowing full well what that meant, but Stiles was over the edge now and about to say something stupid.

"Who are the Cala—?" Sheriff Stilinski tried to feign ignorance of them but was spared by Stiles being even stupider.

"They're closer to Beacon Hills every day. And in every town, the law enforcement is being killed."

McCall grabbed Stiles hard by the arm. "You can't know that."

"Let go of my son, and talk!" the Sheriff demanded.

Stiles nodded each time Agent McCall said something truthful, a silent fact-checker for every death listed. In every town, the top cop died, and then an entire family. Stiles was itching to tell his father who was really dying.

_WOLVES, DAD, all of them. Every time. Someone is killing the great werewolf families and they're headed this way._

Stiles was biting his lip hard not to scream this out; the Sheriff could see his son's fuse burning down fast.

"Stiles, go to your room, okay?"

"No!" Stiles burst out.

His father was far past tired and put his hand on Stiles' shoulder, gripping firmly to steer him upstairs.

"Wolves," Stiles said under his breath, and his father stopped pushing him from the room. "Every time – every family – wolves!"

"What are you saying?" his father whispered back.

Stiles froze. Two bright red points of light danced on his father's forehead. McCall saw them too and swung around gun drawn as Stiles tackled his surprised father. It was too late.

The window shattered and a hot line of pain seared across Stiles' temple. He slammed hard against his father as they fell to the floor. McCall returned fire but there were no further gunshots from outside – he could hear only screams and animals growling on the street, then a car screeching away into the night. Outside, he saw Scott running toward the house, Derek behind him.

"Scott, get in here!" McCall yelled, worried.

"Stiles!" came the Sheriff's frantic voice. "Stiles wake up!"

Blood from Stiles' head drenched his hands and his jacket.

 

**The Hunter**

The Sheriff almost didn't answer the phone as he paced outside Stiles' room, but it was Argent.

"You're still alive?!" were Argent's first breathless words, more surprise than joy.

"Barely. Stiles took the bullet."

"What? Is he—?"

"He's going to make it. How did you know?"

"I saw the Calaveras' compound after the massacre." Argent's voice had lost its steady calm and it made the Sheriff's skin prickle to hear him so on edge. "We took out a few of them, I found a list. They're coming for you, for Derek and Peter."

"Who is?"

"I thought my father was insane, the way he rambled about this day. He knew. He made it happen."

"Can you get back here?"

"It's a new civil war," Argent said, his voice now fearful.

"Can you help us? Chris—"

The call cut out, leaving the Sheriff more unsettled than ever.

 

**The Returned**

"You got a cool scar," Scott said after Stiles lifted the bandage to show him and Melissa swatted his hands away to replace it carefully.

The scar, clearly hurting him less than expected, stretched from ear to temple and then angled up toward his hairline.

"Can you just get rid of it? Stiles asked, lying back on the pillow.

"No. I can only take away the pain," said Scott.

"We're not plastic surgeons," Derek added, stepping into view.

"You came back!" Stiles burst out. "God I missed your snark," Stiles grinned at a scowling Derek.

"How did you get here so fast anyway?" Scott asked.

"Do you have super wolf powers now?" Stiles asked with complete sincerity, eyes wide.

"No, I took a plane," Derek replied, hiding a smile as he looked at the floor and shook his head. "And I missed you two idiots."

Derek put his hand on Stiles' arm as he said that, and the conversation shrank into the distance.

"Is your father well-guarded?" Derek asked Stiles.

"Huh?"

"Your father?"

"He's got a vest and a gun," said Stiles somewhat unsteadily.

"The town's half FBI agents now," Scott added.

"That won't stop them," Derek muttered and moved to the window to look out at the city. "The people behind these murders won't be stopped. If they're here, they'll attack again, very soon. Scott, you need to keep everyone like us out of sight."

"No, we should evacuate," Stiles argued.

"They're here for me," Derek said. "And Peter and Malia."

"How do you know that?" Scott asked Derek.

"Every attack has been on the oldest werewolf family in the area. No other wolves were hit – yet," Derek said.

"Are they hunters?" Scott asked.

"If they're who I think they are, it's bad. Peter will know."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Stiles snapped.

"No, Stiles, he's not part of it," Derek chided, looking back at Stiles. "But we should go see him. He used to tell us scary stories as kids – something about rogue hunters working with dark druids – even wolves who betrayed their own kind. Groups formed during the chaos of the Civil War; he told us they'd been around ever since, growing their numbers…"

 

**Peter's Tale**

Derek lay in his father's lap, drifting in and out of consciousness as his face pressed heavier and heavier against the thick, warm thigh and the deep voice rumbled at his back. It was well past his bedtime, but Uncle Peter was visiting.

Derek could hear Laura's heart beating quickly but he was so sleepy that he missed most of what Uncle Peter was saying with that excited, slippery voice of his. Uncle Peter told them scary stories every time he came to visit.

"We have our own bestiary, you know? Berserkers, wendigos, even hunters. Hunters don't scare us, do they Laura?" Peter asked, his mouth curling up.

She shook her head 'no' almost imperceptibly, but Peter grinned as he went on. "Like the way a bogeyman scares you even if you don't want to say it scares you. You just can't help yourself."

Derek was near sleep, his father's hand stroking his hair softly, covering his ear whenever Peter went too far with his stories.

"But there's one thing that scares even an Alpha, even today – The Treble Sun."

He glanced sideways at Talia.

"They were extremists, even for hunters. And they damned near wiped us out in their rebellion. They had their collaborators among the darkest emissaries—"

Talia groaned.

"— _so they say_ ," Peter continued fluidly, not missing a beat. "And among the _wolves_ …"

He drew out the last word, holding Laura's wide eyes with his unblinking gaze.

"Peter, that's not true," Talia interrupted softly so as not to wake Derek.

"You will pay for this, brother-in-law" came the half-serious threat from Derek's father, a deep voice from all around Derek. "They won't get to sleep for hours."

"But they're all gone now, all gone, for a hundred years and more" Peter said quickly, in his least convincing tone. Laura gulped. "Gone from power if not from this world entirely – ideas like that never really can die away _completely._ Not when people want power and feel the world is unfair. Revenge is an achievable goal. Making things right again – that's hopeless."

Talia could sense Laura's efforts to be brave were failing, and she stepped in.

"The North won the Civil War, but there was another war going on – _that much is true_ ". She directed that pointedly at Peter, who merely shrugged. "The wolves and their emissaries won, but we're still not sure exactly how – that history can't be found."

"And not just forgotten or hard to find, but purposefully erased, step by step," Peter added. "Someone took their time hiding their fingerprints."

Derek's father leaned over his small son and pressed his forehead against him, inhaling deeply.

"Find the spark you need to be great, Derek. Find it in love, not in scaring little kids" he whispered into Derek's ear, and kissed it softly.

Derek rubbed his ear sleepily at the touch of his father's prickly beard and dozed again.

"And don't let your uncle put foolish ideas in your head," he added, looking up at Peter, whose mouth twitched as he tried to hide what his eyes gave away - he'd achieved his goal.

Laura slept well enough; Derek woke scared in the dark. Pieces of the story had worked their way past his father's warm embrace.

 

**The Other Theory**

"You fell asleep on your father's lap – how did you not tell me about that?" Stiles asked Derek, gazing at him, newly curious, which Derek knew meant more questions to come and more sarcasm.

"They've been busy recruiting, waiting for the right time to wipe the world clean," Peter concluded, his voice oddly calm. "I never thought they were real!" he chuckled, but the calmness was gone in an instant. "We need to leave town right now."

"You? Run from a fight?" Stiles asked, amazed.

"I pick fights I can win. The Calaveras lost this, the damn _Harrisons_ lost this!"

"The ones outside Leesburg," Derek said, predicting Stiles' next question. "The earliest wolves to immigrate, more powerful than any Hale, even Talia at her prime."

"Immigrants?" Stiles asked.

"The native shape shifters were here first, of course," Peter said. "Don't be such a racist."

"Okay, so let's go back to Deaton," Stiles suggested, annoyed.

"That old liar-" Peter started.

"Or his sister," Stiles continued, watching Peter's eyes widen, confirming his guess.

"Marin," Peter said with what sounded like respect. "She's formidable. Not afraid to push the boundaries."

Stiles' phone rang.

"It's Lydia. She has the—"

Derek put his fingers across Stiles' mouth before he could say 'pictures' and looked cautiously at Peter, but he was mumbling to himself about druids as he left the room. Derek shook his head at Stiles, almost unnoticeably.

"Stiles?" Lydia's voice bounced off his eardrums unheard.

Stiles could think only of the warm fingers resting gently on his lips. He was sure his body would give everything away, but it was his brain that betrayed him first.

"Stiles?? Are you okay?"

Stiles snapped out of it, he thought, and was about to say 'I need Derek to see the pictures' but what came out was "I need Derek to be with me."

Derek's eyebrows rose slowly, but he wasn't frowning any more.

"Oh my god," Stiles whimpered. "I mean, with me as in coming to Lydia's with me to see the – the things I wanted to show you and of course you knew that's what I meant and you're just standing there…."

Derek _was_ just standing there, thinking _I missed this. Why did I miss this?_

 

**The Proof**

The photograph of the weary Civil-War-era Stiles showed a distinct line where the hair stopped at his left temple. Lydia's finger tapped up and down on it.

 _Please let that be a crease_ , Stiles thought and pushed her hand aside to look closer.

"It's your scar!" Lydia said, a little too intrigued.

It was the scar, plainly, the same sideways gash at the temple and it had not been there before he was shot. No matter how much he wished it away now, there it was and there it stayed.

"Right down to the dip, right here." She traced the line on his head first and then the line in the picture. "Time travel. But I told you that before."

Lydia kept talking to Derek as Stiles slowly went numb. Finally he sighed and rubbed his face in despair.

"We can't go have some time-traveling adventure now! Werewolf-murdering freaks are targeting my dad. And Derek. I have to figure that out first."

Derek had remained silent the entire time, looking at first one photo, then the other, then at Stiles. He couldn't accept the theory, let alone the confirmation, so he focused on another detail.

"What's this word on the back?" he said, flipping the photograph of himself up.

"Gravesburn," Lydia and Stiles said at the same time.

Derek waited, eyebrows rising.

"Can't find it. Doesn't exist," she said.

"Nothing on the Internet," Stiles confirmed, nodding.

Derek looked back and forth between them.

"Literally nothing. It's not a person, place or thing," Stiles added.

"You'd both better do some research on how to blend in," Lydia said, moving to the next topic.

"Blend _in_? To the 1860s?" Stiles asked, not appreciating her reasonable approach.

"No cars, no Internet, not a lot of clean water,…no prescriptions."

"Slavery! _War_." Stiles countered, frustrated. "I'm in a uniform, Lydia, and so is Derek. We could die back there. Listen to me, I'm talking like this is going to happen."

"You two need to practice," she stated.

 

**The Plan**

"Practice fitting in?" Derek asked skeptically when they were back in Lydia's driveway.

He stood with Stiles beside the jeep. They'd laid the photographs next to each other on the hood but hadn't been able to get much further.

"You know, like knowing how to get around in the Civil War era, not give away who we are, undercover identities, accents maybe-" Stiles was getting carried away with the idea. "Costumes!"

"Stiles!" Derek said, stopping him cold.

"Okay, well, we can't use our real names."

"You mean that 'kill a mosquito, destroy a civilization' idea?" Derek asked, even more skeptically.

"Exactly. I think I'll call myself Silas."

"Time travel doesn't work that way."

"Oh, and you know because you're a Time Lord."

"That's not how time works and it's not how magic works. The only time travel in our world is a druid's clairvoyance, and even that's limited. There are a few legends, but they're just legends."

"So if you're sure we can't change things, why are we even showing up in the past if not to stop these attacks? These things have to be connected. More to the point, why are _we_ connected? Why the two of us? Huh? Did you ask yourself that?"

"Many times," Derek replied, giving the words an edge.

"Oh, well, thanks," Stiles snapped back. "Why now, Derek? Morrell asked me the same question."

"Did you show her these—?"

"Of course not. But she was unusually interested in …us."

Derek was staring at Stiles now, his mouth moving silently as question after question pushed its way to the front of his thoughts. The one idea that made it out wasn't even a question: "You're anxious."

"God, stop doing that. That smell thing. I'm _always_ anxious," Stiles burst out. "I don't want to go back," he said, more quietly, his eyes welling up.

"We'll make sure your father is safe," Derek promised. "And Scott."

"There are no pictures of… us… together," Stiles said, clearing his throat and wiping his eyes. "Everything we've been through since this all started, since Scott, you've been there." His lip was quivering.

"I'm here—"

"Why did you leave?" Stiles asked, furious and at the same time afraid to learn.

"I didn't come back to stay…" Derek attempted but he was unprepared for this.

"So the same old same old," Stiles said, composing himself even as his mouth twisted up, giving him away. "What are you afraid of?"

"You."

"Me. I'm not afraid of you, but I'm supposed to believe the big bad wolf is afraid of me?"

"No matter what version of that fairy tale you read, one of us dies."

"Tell me you know how I feel." A familiar silence from Derek. "I’m waiting," Stiles added, putting his hands on his hips.

"I'm waiting," Derek echoed. "For you, when you're ready."

"I've been ready for years."

"You had a crush on a cool guy in a leather jacket."

Stiles snickered at that. "I thought I hated you."

"You got over that too."

"And then I almost killed you."

"That wasn't you," Derek said gently.

"And then I dated Malia."

"I approved," Derek said calmly, sounding more like an uncle than Stiles wanted him to. "I  
I was never jealous before you came along, Stiles. But you needed her."

"I need _you_ , Derek. I need _this_. This storm, this… spark," he said, eyes locked on Derek's. "I got kind of weird when you left town. No one to annoy, you know? I wrote a whole essay about it," Stiles said, digging frantically through the backpack he pulled out of the jeep, flipping through his notebook until Derek put his hand gently on Stiles' arm. Stiles calmed, quieted. His head dropped. "I got an 'A' on it."

Derek said in the most matter-of-fact voice, the one that drove Stiles up a wall, "Stiles, you annoy everyone."

"You were different."

 _Just as stubborn and electrifying as before_ , Derek thought. _And just as likely to be right_.

What was nearly Stiles' first _non_ -imaginary kiss with Derek was interrupted by Derek's refusal to lean in, followed immediately by Lydia's banshee scream from the front door.

"Your father, at the Nemeton," was all Lydia could gasp and all Stiles waited to hear before he jumped in the jeep. Derek jumped in beside him, ears still ringing.

 

**The Nemeton**

"Derek!" Stiles called into the dark as they raced together through the trees.

"Keep up!"

"You're not going in the right direction," Stiles yelled, trying not to sound out of breath as he dashed through the woods.

"It's up ahead—" Derek said and then fell silent. Stiles heard him stop suddenly, just ahead.

"The moon's different," Derek said, sounding uncertain.

"Yeah, it's straight ahead now."

"I – it felt like this was the right way," Derek mumbled and shook his head to clear it.

"Are you lost?" Stiles asked in disbelief. "We don't have time to be lost – my Dad's life depends on this."

"There's something … out here. Druid magic."

Derek ran off the path, leaving Stiles alone with whatever was out there.

"What do you mean?" he whispered loudly.

No reply.

"Derek!" he whispered again.

"Stiles, come here." Derek's voice was off.

Stiles caught up to him at a clearing, and stood facing Derek, who was looking down at the ground.

"Do you see it?"

Even in the moonlight, Stiles could barely make out the thin line, like a rope on the ground.

"Is that a snake?" he yelled, jumping back in a flail of arms and legs.

"It's a line of mountain ash."

"No one puts lines of mountain ash through the woods. Who would do that?"

"Come on," Derek said softly and ran ahead, along the line. Stiles raised his hands in exasperation, but took off after Derek the moment he vanished into the depths of shadow under the trees.

He collided with Derek's broad back a few minutes later, and felt Derek's arms reaching back to keep him there, keep him safe. They were in the last place Stiles ever wanted to find himself again – just a few feet from the wide, flat stump of a once great tree, the source of so many troubles in Beacon Hills. Derek backed up against him and held him close.

"The line spirals in to the Nemeton," Derek whispered back over his shoulder.

"Someone led us here?" Stiles whispered into Derek's ear, trying to ignore the warmth he felt from the arms around him, and the care. It felt like care.

"A ring of mountain ash, spiraling inward to the center," came a voice from the darkness on the other side. "We had to be sure you found your way, Derek."

Stiles' mind said "Ms. Morrell" just as she stepped into view. There were footsteps behind them now as well - Derek moved around Stiles until their backs were together. Stiles could hear the claws come out, the low growl that shouldn't be doing the things it did to him.

Behind them, more people emerged from the darkness in an arc and directly in front of them was Dr. Deaton.

Derek backed toward the Nemeton, limited by the tight curve of the ash line, pushing Stiles with him.

"Doc!" Stiles said over Derek's shoulder, but Deaton was unmoved, his face locked on Morrell on the opposite side, judging her mood and her next move.

Stiles and Derek were stuck in the center of a shrinking circle, and the men and women around them in the moonlight moved slowly, arms out wide like they were trying to round up two lost sheep. The Sheriff was not there.

 

**The Gyre**

From the distance came the sound of motorcycles racing through the forest, and soon, two crazy headlights could be seen, sweeping wildly up and down, left and right, ever closer.

"Together!" she said to Derek and Stiles, who stepped warily onto the Nemeton. "Bind the circle, we have no time!" Morrell shouted, and the others joined hands.

The first motorcycle skidded to a halt and a man swung off, holding the Sheriff in a chokehold with a gun to his head. Blood stained his uniform.

"Dad!" Stiles said, lunging forward, but Derek grabbed him with both hands and pulled him back.

"Don't put him in more danger," Derek said softly in Stiles' ear.

"End this now!" yelled the man holding the Sheriff. "We have no quarrel with druids who help us."

"Or wolves," sneered the other one.

Morrell joined hands with the others on either side of her, closing the circle. The Nemeton trembled, and Stiles stumbled free of Derek, his hands hitting the center of the stump as he fell. Light flared up from the cracks below his hands, igniting the mountain ash. A glow raced out along the spiral, circling the ring of druids and moving out into the forest, around and around in an ever-widening arc. The entire spiral glowed red as the pulse of light sped outward, gathering energy like a clock being wound up.

"Stiles, stop her," Morrell said in a clear, strangely calm voice. "You have it in you. You can save your father and Derek, and Scott and all of his kind. If you can stop her, you can stop _them_ ," and she nodded at the men holding his father.

Derek watched the spiral as it grew wider around them, holding Stiles tight against him, but Stiles could only see his father being pushed to the ground. He struggled against Derek's arms.

"Stiles you stay with him!" his father ordered.

The man standing over his father stepped back and aimed his gun.

"Dad!!"

He fired into the sheriff, whose body shook and swung forward, falling. The pulse of light reached its farthest point as the shot rang out, then returned faster than before, spiraling inward, picking up the wind with it.

"No!!" Stiles screamed desperately, and broke from Derek's grip for a second.

Deaton wanted to help the Sheriff, but the druids on either side held fast to him, and the magic held tighter.

The Sheriff crawled forward toward the Nemeton, toward his son, and Stiles reached the edge just as Derek grabbed him again.

"Stay here. Something bad is about to happen."

"Something bad just happened!" Stiles turned on him in confusion, fighting to get free with every ounce of strength as tears filled his eyes.

The sheriff collapsed onto the roots and bled freely across them as Stiles fought to reach him.

"You knew this would happen?!" Deaton yelled over the rising wind.

"All can be restored," Morrell called back, cool certainty in her voice.

"Derek!" Deaton yelled. "Remember Peter's stories. Remember what your mother told you! You have the answer in your hands."

The energy raced along the glowing spiral, lighting up the forest as it sped back in toward them, wrapping one last time around the Nemeton stump, flowing through the circle of hands. Everything seemed to slow down.

Stiles tore free of Derek to get to his father, but too late.

"DAD!!" he cried out as the world slipped away.

What happened next was different, depending on where you stood.

A maelstrom descended on the Nemeton, a swirling tornado of light and fire that dragged the druid circle to their knees and vanished in a final flash. The Sheriff saw only light above him, a tunnel of light and in it, his son, shrinking into the distance.

The woods went dark and utterly silent.

When he could breathe again, Deaton spoke.

"What have we done?" he gasped.

"Regression to the mean – isn't that what you call it, brother? I call it balancing things out."

"They weren't ready!"

"They're close enough to figuring it out. Derek has Hale blood - you of all people should know what that means. He has Talia's strength, if he chooses to use it."

"And Stiles?"

"He did very well on all his college placement tests."

"He won't survive this."

"He has it in him. They have all they need to tip the scales back. They have each other."

 

**Three Suns**

_2015_ – Light, as bright as the sun, then a twilight, a flickering blur all around. From Derek's point of view, Stiles left him to fall alone.

 _1863_ – Day, then night, then day again, the sun a solid line from horizon to horizon.

_1862 – On an Eastern Tennessee hillside_

When he woke, it was to a stinging smell of blood, damp needles, decay, heat, and more blood.

It was in his nose and mouth, the taste of it - blood drying on heavy wool, blood seeping into dust, blood cooled from the heat of bodies it had escaped and warmed again by the sun.

And death. There was nothing alive but the occasional animal tearing at the remains. All of that seemed far off. Derek was in deep shade, his face pressed against something cold and hard.

He pushed outward through the decay with his new senses. Derek didn't want to face this world his senses had warned him about, but he needed to find Stiles.

He opened one eye slowly, and saw the root of a vast and spreading oak; around him in every direction were the dead, ripped to pieces, sometimes just uniforms left, a few bodies more or less intact, three or four days gone at most.

He was naked in the shade of the tree and lying in a pool of blood.

And there was no Stiles.

_Where are you now, Stiles?_

 

***

_1862 –In the low hills west of Leesburg, Virginia_

Stiles had felt Derek tugging on him, and then his strong hands slipped away, even as the world bent around him and both Derek and his father vanished from view. He turned to grab hold of Derek but the whirlwind only grew stronger, spinning him down into a well that never seemed to end.

When he came to, he had trouble focusing on anything. A line of small glowing stars moved up and down a white surface. Something intruded, a pain in his side, and cold was spreading all down his back. The dots of light resolved into ants, large, glossy black and covered in droplets like dew, trailing up and down the trunk of a huge three-trunked birch tree.

He sat up and listened. He was cradled between three large white arms like the tree's infant son. Leaves shivered overhead in the chill breeze as low clouds scudded ahead of a storm. It was mid-afternoon but felt much later.

"DAD!" Stiles yelled, looking around wildly, arms and legs thrashing to get himself free from the tree trunks. "Derek?!"

He quickly realized he was naked as the day he was born and chilled to the bone.

"Dad… I'm sorry. Everything I touch…"

His hands ached where he'd fallen against the Nemeton. He rubbed them to warm them up, to dull that ache and all the aches in him, but mostly to erase the memory that the fire was a fire he started.

"Derek!" he called again, louder, desperate. The birch leaves fluttered faster, but that was the gusting wind.

"What's all that ruckus over there?" came a strangely deep voice, not far away, followed by the click-click of a rifle being cocked.

Stiles pressed his back against the tree's broadest trunk, shivering.

 

**The Dark of the Moon**

Bits of leaf and needles clung to the blood drying on his stomach and thighs as Derek stood up. He worked his way among the carnage, horrified at the violence that had struck these men.

The soldiers, or what was left of them, and their uniforms were clearly from the Civil War. Derek found half a body, more or less, with pants his size. He apologized as he pulled the cuffs gently and the remains slipped wetly onto the ground.

Not much farther he found a pair of boots with the long, deep slashes of wolves. He could see the man, scrambling in terror across the ground until he was caught and eaten. In one deep gash near the heel, a single claw remained embedded.

As he crouched at the edge of the shade, he had the distinct impression he was being watched.

"Stiles?"

No response.

Derek moved even more cautiously now as he gathered up a patchwork of uniform pieces. He was listening for any sound outside of the natural cacophony of cicadas and the occasional bird. He sniffed the air again, and the wolf scent was strong now, under the blood.

He could sense no heartbeat, no breathing, but then he caught sight of the man wedged in an upright pose against a tree, head bitten half off and his remaining eye fixed on Derek. The man was almost his size so Derek lifted the coat away from the mostly-eaten body. It was snug over Derek's muscles, almost comically small on him.

It was an officer's uniform with a watch, a pen, and a small piece of stiff paper folded in the breast pocket. Derek unfolded this slowly to reveal line after line of looping cursive handwriting, a strong and beautiful hand in any other circumstance.

The orders were to march east into Virginia to join up with a group already there. At the top, the letter was addressed to Captain Black, and in the last line, a more conversational tone mentioned him by name – Daniel. Folded with the orders was a yellowed newspaper clipping announcing the engagement of Captain Daniel Black and Charlotte Maynard of Philadelphia, dated August 8, 1861.

As Derek read the date, he spun around, eyes widening as he took in the truth of the photographs Stiles had found and the danger he now faced.

He repeated Stiles' name, louder, but the silence of the dead seemed to have infected the forest. "I could really use you right now." _The answer slipped out of my hands._

 

**Gravesburn**

Stiles peered around the birch trunk; there was no way to hide anymore. Just ten feet away stood a young black man in clothing that had once been quite fine, his rifle aimed at Stiles. Stiles decided to go big.

"Put your gun down, or you'll be so sorry. You can't kill me! I am a lawyer and I will sue you for every penny you have," he said, trying to sound both aggressive and a little insane as he waved his arm. It came out far too easily, and that scared him more than the gun.

The man with the rifle froze at this display, and then doubled over laughing. He didn’t seem to be able to stop, and Stiles was at a loss for what to do, naked at the edge of a field with a gun pointed at him, albeit hanging loosely as the man tried to stop laughing but burst out again with each glance he took.

The man was gasping for breath now, coughing, but hadn't let go of the gun. It was pointing down, just slightly. Stiles covered his crotch with both hands.

The man stopped laughing and raised the gun again.

"You need to clothe yourself, you heathen."

"Have you seen anyone else out here? Big unfriendly guy, muscles, black beard?"

"And then I'll take you to church with me—" the young man continued, ignoring the question.

"Oh, thanks, no, that's all right-" Stiles demurred.

"—well, I call it church. Gives me a sense of purpose. Lots of certainty and lots of sharing and some moonshine that we don't tell the magistrate we have," he whispered. "Isn't that what a church is?"

Nothing in his tone suggested he was paying Stiles the least attention or that naked strangers were an unusual sight.

"No, that's not—" Stiles started, but the shivering cut his words off. He shook himself and tried again. "What year…is it?"

"The one thousand eight hundredth year and three score, says the Reverend G., who talks awful formal. And a year or two of war; I lose track, I do."

"1863?" Stiles guessed. "Leesburg, Virginia."

"Thereabouts. Five years since the monsters freed me from the chains my owner kept me in and brought me from the coast, up to here, where I continue to pretend I'm a free man."

"Did you see a man in uniform?" Stiles asked, hoping his father was near.

"Too many. But they won't be back for a while. Oh, you poor thing, come into the house with me and we'll find some fine clothes for you too. House so fancy it had its own name but I gave it a new one. Who knew monsters lived so fine and dandy, hmm?"

"H-house?" Stiles asked, looking around him.

"Gravesburn. It's a fair walk and you have to know where to look for it, but they liked it that way. They kept to themselves. Kept themselves far from me and kept the world farther still."

"Who did?" Stiles shivered as he scanned the tree line for any sign of Derek, his father, or even that he was in Beacon Hills.

"You don't want to know them." His voice turned colder than the weather. "Monstrous folk. They are gone now. Soon they'll all be gone," he whispered. "Come along."

Stiles followed the young man across the wide uneven furrows of the empty field, his mind working at a fierce pace to make sense of it all. The pattern of the furrows tugged at his eyes, begging attention, but he was too close. The man's appearance was sending him a message too, but he was too far. He tucked his freezing fingers up under his arms and trotted to catch up. Behind him, the birch tree rustled, a vibration that matched his shivers and went unnoticed. What should have been seen was unseen. Instead, Stiles' mind had settled on one thing.

_I'll find you, Derek. You can't run away from me again._

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: Based on truly amazing art by [alexisjane](alexisjane.livejournal.com). This was originally a quick little fic and it grew quite big. There will be more to the story, have no fear. Written for Teen Wolf Reverse Bang 2015 (Round Three).


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